


Suitors for Sansa

by rideswraptors



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Future Fic, One Shot, i don't know what this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-16
Updated: 2018-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-05 19:08:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13394331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rideswraptors/pseuds/rideswraptors
Summary: Everyone is sick unto death of hearing petitions for the Lady of Winterfell's hand in marriage, but Jon has a really, really good reason for allowing it.





	Suitors for Sansa

**Author's Note:**

> I found this on my google drive and decided it was acceptable to post.   
> I have tried, and therefore no one can judge me.  
> Ta, darlings.

The only thing scarier than the giant white direwolf sitting in front of the head table of Winterfell’s great hall was his master. Jon Stark, fully legitimized as both a Stark and Targaryen, had become King in the North after a disastrous negotiation with the Targaryen queen in the South. He’d given her one of two options: relinquish the North to him, or he would take the Iron Throne from her. Of course, she had threatened him with dragon fire, but he had responded as a typical Northerner. The North would never forget another Stark dying in the South. He had the North’s loyalties. His cousin had the Vale’s, the Riverlands’, and the Reach’s pledge. Jaime Lannister had control of the Westerlands and had pledged himself to both Jon and his cousins. Asha and Theon had taken back the Iron Islands from their uncle and pledged to House Stark. Shireen Baratheon was indebted to Jon for his consistent protection, so the Stormlands pledged to House Stark. That left Daenerys with the Crownlands and Dorne. Dorne, whose loyalties had consistently swayed only to itself. 

 

The decision became quite clear quite quickly. Division of nations or a lifetime of war. It went as Jon Stark demanded. He was King in the North, and Sansa Stark remained Lady of Winterfell and the Trident. Yohn Royce was installed as Lord of the Vale. 

 

As King in the North, and protector of his cousins, Jon Stark was required to hear marriage petitions for both of the Stark women. Now, Eldin Manderley was waiting his turn in the Hall, listening to the enthusiastic petitions of those in front of him. He, for one, was completely uninterested in the whole process. Sansa Stark was a beautiful woman, to be sure, and a prize acquisition for any man looking to improve his station within the Northern kingdom. However, Eldin was more interested in one of his sister’s handmaidens who was sweet and innocent and not gently caressing a giant direwolf with a reputation for ripping out men’s throats. Arya Stark was another option, too, but for most she was the consolation, not the prize. Besides, there were certain rumors regarding her relationship with Winterfell’s blacksmith who was reported to be Robert Baratheon’s bastard. Eldin had no opinions on the subject, he simply did as his father bade him. 

 

*

 

Arya found that one of the most irritating parts of her role as heir to Winterfell was being forced to hear petitions for Sansa’s hand in marriage. Everything else was tolerable. Everything else she could stomach or deal with or shut out. But not this one thing. The subject of Sansa’s marriage was not a pleasant one among the Stark family. Everyone knew it was inevitable and that there were few options, but Sansa had been married twice. Thankfully both were annulled, due to Jon’s insistence, but it could not be avoided forever. Harrold Hardyng had renewed his attentions to Sansa, as had Wilas Tyrell. Sansa rejected them both; Harry with a little more gusto than Wilas. Now it was an endless parade of idiot boys whose papas were looking to manipulate Jon. 

 

Sansa was surprisingly good at this part, hearing their petitions and responding kindly. She actually  _ listened _ because each rejection was tailored to the individual. When the papas complained to Jon that she would have to make a choice sooner or later, he merely shrugged. It was suggested that Jon Stark had lost control of his cousins, was letting them run wild about Winterfell, shaming their family name. Jon laughed uproariously at that.

 

“They are wolves!” he’d chuckle, “I  _ never _ had any control of them.” 

 

Bran had married Meera Reed, and Rickon’s mind was too far gone to consider wedding him to anyone. The boy clung to Sansa’s skirts as if she was Catelyn Stark brought back to life, and they all seemed to prefer it that way. For herself, Arya had turned her attentions to Gendry Waters, now legitimized as Baratheon by Shireen. He had renounced any claim on the Storm’s End in favor of pledging to House Stark. In true, it was to stay with Arya, as he had made abundantly clear before having Sam Tarly write a response to his cousin. 

 

Still, Arya refused to marry until things with Sansa were settled. It was the principle of the thing. If Sansa stayed unwed, so would Arya, if only to keep a united front. She wouldn’t leave Sansa alone in the world ever again. Gendry had come to accept this, but warned her that if she ever found herself pregnant, he wouldn’t give her the choice. Jon agreed. There would be no more Baratheon or Stark bastards if they had any say in it. Arya understood and accepted this. 

 

Her attention was brought back into focus at the end of some petitioner’s song. He’d brought a bard along to sing Sansa’s praises, as the belief was still maintained that her sister was overly fond of songs and lemon cakes. The tune was fine enough, but Arya was reaching the limit of her patience. She cut her gaze over to Jon, who appeared to have nodded off. She kicked him sharply in the ankle, startling him. Jon sniffed and straightened, focusing overly hard on the man who had been speaking. Arya had already forgotten his name. 

 

“Uh--that was--?”

 

“Lovely,” Sansa interrupted smoothly, her tone sweet and even. “I do enjoy a good song, and I thank you for remembering, ser…” Somehow she continued kindly enough that the man left smiling and thanking her, but with no betrothal. 

 

“Is that all?” Arya asked abruptly before another man came forward, “For the day, I mean,” she revised as soon as she saw the scowl on Sansa’s face. “Or the hour. Perhaps we break for luncheon?” Next to her, Jon snorted softly, very obviously trying to contain his amusement at her impatience. Sansa sighed heavily,

 

“My sister is right,” she said standing, “We shall break for luncheon and reconvene in two hours. I thank you all for your patience.” 

 

Before she could step away from the table, Jon was there smoothly taking her arm. Ghost followed Arya. As they walked from the Hall, several men asked Sansa to take her meal with them, and all were answered the same.

 

“I take meals only with my family, but thank you for the kindness.” 

 

Arya scowled the whole of the time, easily stepping between the men and her sister with a hand on her blade. She didn’t like anyone getting too close anymore. 

 

“How much longer do we have to endure the vultures?” she grumbled as they left.

 

“Until they stop coming,” Sansa said airily with a smile on her lips. She enjoyed Arya’s discomfort just a little  _ too _ much. It was Arya’s turn to snort.

 

“And here I thought it was until you picked one of them.”

 

This earned her no response, which was a response all of its own. She cut her gaze to the corner and watched her sister look over at Jon. There was something fond and secretive there. Expectant. Jon responded in kind with a lift of his brows. So Arya turned her gaze forward again. Wouldn’t do to let them know she was watching. Because she was, and had been, watching them for some time. When Jon was legitimized as their cousin, Arya had anticipated a shift in their dynamics, had waited for it. However, with her and Bran and Rickon, everything was as it had always been. Nothing had changed between Arya and the man she still thought of as a brother. Sansa, however…

 

The shift had been abrupt. In public. In private, though, there was a closeness Arya had not witnessed until then. In public, he kept a respectful distance, used her honorifics, deferred to her as a lord did a lady. In private, they sat closely together, heads bent over the same documents. They bickered and teased one another, drank together and teamed up to embarrass Arya about Gendry. They had become fiercely protective and defensive of one another. Jon was wary of men coming too close to Sansa, though never said a word to Arya about men sniffing around her. Perhaps it was because he knew she was quicker with a blade than words. Perhaps it wasn’t. Sansa fussed over his health, his eating and sleeping habits. She was constantly dictating his schedule and mending his clothing. She scolded him for working too hard or not delegating enough. They shared thoughts and opinions with one another that they shared with no one else. Arya knew this well enough because the phrase: “You know what I think of that” came up frequently in mixed conversation. They would share a look, concede a point, and move on. 

 

“Whatever,” Arya grumbled, “I’m sick unto death of hearing men wax poetic about your ruby red hair and sky blue eyes.” 

 

“Fire-kissed,” Jon corrected, probably without thinking about it. “That’s what they’re saying.” 

 

“And here I thought you were using petition time to  _ nap _ ,” Arya japed at him with a wry grin. 

 

“I--!”

 

“It doesn’t matter,” Sansa interjected with thinly veiled exasperation. “Those men only come here at their fathers’ behest and quite happily leave without a single look back.”

 

“And how would you know that?” Jon asked icily. Arya smirked.

 

*

 

Sansa looked over at Jon, irritated yet amused by his silly jealousies. He was the one who insisted…

 

“The Manderley boy was kind enough, but he’d obviously never heard his bard’s song.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“ _ Meaning _ that Lord Manderley remembered my fondness for song and commissioned a bard to accompany him to Winterfell. Poor Eldin looked so relieved to be free of me that I can only assume he has some sweetheart waiting for him back home.” 

 

“You can’t possibly know that--”

 

“I can too,” Sansa insisted, offended at his lack of faith in her abilities. “You can see it in a man’s eyes,” she continued. “When there’s a woman, you can see it.” 

 

Jon’s gray eyes landed on her sharply, almost cutting her, and her heart clenched tight in her chest. There was...an understanding between them. For that was the best way to describe it. Jon was insistent on niceties and formalities because Daenerys was still licking her wounds, and it wouldn’t do to anger her unnecessarily. _ He  _ insisted on public distance.  _ He  _ insisted they continue to receive proposals.  _ He _ insisted that they wait. Any frustration or irritations was of his own creating; Sansa wanted none of it. 

 

She brought her other hand up to his forearm, squeezing in what she hoped would be a soothing manner. This thing between them grew harder and harder to resist, harder and harder to tamp down. Sansa wanted very much to be honest and open and be done with it. There was really no telling how long Daenerys Targaryen would hang over them. 

 

*

 

As usual, Arya abandoned them in favor of searching out Gendry at the forge. If Jon wasn’t absolutely certain that Arya would gut him, he would have done something about the man long before. There was nothing for it now, Arya had claimed him, making Jon’s protesting useless. Besides, Jon  _ liked _ Gendry. They were good friends. It was only that he didn’t like the rumors. 

 

This left Jon and Sansa to enter the Keep alone, where they would take luncheon and avoid the one thing they wanted to talk about the most. He’d made promises. Promises that he couldn’t keep if Daenerys reneged on their agreement out of spite. Not that it made him feel any better about any of it. Sansa was so close and the suitors seemed to multiply by the dozens. Not to mention Petyr Baelish’s unseemly presence. He circled her like a vulture, waiting to swoop in. Waiting for what, Jon couldn’t say. Sansa claimed that she had plans for Baelish, that she needed one more thing from him before she put that plan into play. Jon was forced to accept this and trust her judgement. It had saved his sorry hide on more than one occasion. 

 

The second they were within the safety of the Keep, their guards disbursed, and Sansa leaned more heavily into his side. He liked these times the most, the quiet moments when it was just the two of them. No barriers, no need for words. Jon wasn’t good with words anyway, not the way Sansa was. He had trouble enough voicing his opinions on their day to day operations, let alone expressing feelings. Ghost ran down the corridor, to stand guard at the door. 

 

He sighed, “If you have something to say,” he told her lowly, “just say it.”

 

“And put you out of your misery?” she japed with a smirk. “You already know what I think.” 

 

“You’re angry with me.”

 

“ _ Angry _ is rather a simplification, don’t you agree? After all, irritated, frustrated, exasperated, vexed, antagonized…”

 

“I get it…”

 

“Piqued, aggravated,  _ impatient _ …”

 

“Sansa…”

 

“Those are all much better words for it, in my humble opinion. After all, not only is this whole process  _ not _ my choice, but then I have to deal with your surliness  _ after the fact _ …”

 

“I am not surly.”

 

“Brooding, then. And jealous. And distant. And then I have to spend  _ all day _ \--”

 

She was cut off as Jon roughly guided her into her solar, slamming the door shut with his foot and crowding her up against the wall. His hands lifted to her face, turning it up to his, and he ducked down to kiss her. Warm and familiar and loving. He was always so gentle with her, so sweet in his attentions. He’d told her of Ygritte, of his short-lived affair with Daenerys, and he knew of her experiences with Harry. Her stories were not so pleasant as his, and so he was all the more respectful. As he layered soft kisses on her lips, his hands never wandered lower than her neck and shoulders. He usually gave her room to move away, but right then his body was snug against hers, giving off an insistent kind of heat that she’d been wanting from him. 

 

He pulled back to let her breathe, broke their kiss by gently nuzzling their mouths together before dropping his forehead to hers. 

 

“Better?”

 

“No.”

 

“At Yuletide,” he muttered, “We’ll make the announcement then.”

 

“Promise?”

 

He kissed her soundly, “Promise.”

 

“That’s still 3 turns away,” she grumbled, bringing her hands up to clutch at his cloak, unwittingly pulling him closer to her.

 

“Then we won’t host any more suitors.” 

 

“Really?” 

 

“Really.” He knocked his forehead gently against hers before leaning back and examining her. “One condition.” She sighed and dropped her head back against the wall.

 

“Here we go.”

 

“You need to tell me your plans for Baelish.” 

 

She straightened, tilting her head, “Right now?” She slipped out of his embrace, feeling the cool air replace his warmth almost immediately. It sickened her, but whenever Littlefinger came up, she couldn’t touch Jon. She couldn’t be near him. It was almost as if she contaminated Jon just by thinking of Littlefinger in his presence. She didn’t want the two anywhere near each other. 

 

“Soon.”

 

“Why?”

 

“Sansa…”

 

“Do you not trust me to handle him?” She crossed her arms over her stomach, feeling herself cave inward. He reached out for her, but she jerked back, furious. 

 

“My asking has nothing to do with us,” he gestured between them. “I trust you with everything. Absolutely everything, and I mean that. Everything I have is yours for the taking, and I will not hesitate to protect that right for you.” 

 

“Then why--?”

 

“Because I’m scared, Sansa!” he cut her off, shouting now. “That man scares me. I feel sick just having to look at him!” Quite without her knowledge, Sansa had crossed the room and was back in his arms again. She flung her arms around his neck, nuzzling into his temple. He shook under her, probably more from anger than fear, but all the same. Jon’s hold on her was tight and fierce. His arms braced low on her back, lifting her just a little, so that they fit together more perfectly. 

 

“I don’t want him near you,” Jon whispered. Baelish’s titles had been stripped from him by Daenerys as punishment for serving the Usurper. He was one of many who’d faced the same, and so it wasn’t conspicuous. It had actually happened because Sansa asked it of Daenerys, as a favor. A favor that would eventually have to be repaid. She pulled back, bringing her hands to cup his face. His beard was longer now, fuller. She liked it. 

 

“Listen to me,” she said gently, “Petyr Baelish is a just man, like any other. A monster of man, but still a man. I know him because I know what he wants. I just need him to be explicit.” 

 

His nostrils flared, “Explicit?” 

 

She bit her lip and smiled ruefully, “He believes that I still have a path to the Iron Throne.” He frowned. “Turn you and Daenerys against one another, remove her. Install you, make me your heir. Then all he has to do is marry me and murder you and he’s King of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

 

“That’s insane.”

 

“That, Jon, is precisely what he has already done once. And he had much less to work with then. His threat to us is very, very real.” 

 

“So what do you intend to do?” She felt his fingers lace the small of her back, She brought her hands down to his chest, playing with the Targaryen medallion Daenerys had gifted him. It was a black dragon with a dragonglass chip for an eye. He wore it even though he took the Stark name.  _ To remember _ , he’d told her once. What he was trying to remember, she couldn’t say. 

 

“I am going to play his game, allow him to believe he has me.” She felt him stiffen, so she smiled. “Not like  _ that _ ,” she assured him. “Just enough for him to be convinced of my loyalty.” She tilted her head thoughtfully, “Or stupidity.”

 

“You’re not stupid,” he growled out. One of her hands moved to stroke down and back up his neck. He turned to kiss the palm. 

 

“And I really only need you to believe that.” She kept going. “Once he’s convinced, he’ll give me little bits of his plan at a time, and when the time is right I’ll convince him to tell me everything. With a witness. And that will be enough to condemn him.”  

 

“You intend to execute him.”

 

“Not me, you.” She moved closer. “Would you like me to list his crimes? Where should I begin? With the death of Jon Arryn? Or Bran’s fall?” 

 

He shook his head, eyes locked on hers even as he tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear, “Not sure I want to know all of it.” She smiled thinly, full of regret that something so ugly had to sit between them for so long. 

 

“I don’t want to tell you, if I’m being honest. He is poison. He ruins everything he touches.” 

 

“He didn’t ruin you.”

 

“Jon, be serious.”

 

“I am. He doesn’t have you. You’re better than him, you’re stronger. I’ll do whatever you ask, you have my word.” 

 

There was a knock at the door, Sandor Clegane and two servants came in with their noon meal. With Ghost just behind them. Sansa’s guard looked excessively put upon and irritated. Jon moved away from Sansa, though not as quickly as usual. Sandor merely lifted a brow at her, but the servants would never say a word. They were far too loyal to her to gossip senselessly. She’d brought them and their babes through Winter. Still, she blushed under Sandor’s scrutiny and went to help them set the table. She poured their tea and bade them to sit and rest for a time, as they wouldn’t be needed elsewhere. 

 

“When do we send these vermin home, then, Snow?” Sandor asked, taking his usual seat and accepting a plate from Sansa. She censured him for his flippant tone with a wry look, but he remained nonplussed. 

 

“In the morning. No sense in offending half the kingdom because of impatience.” 

 

“They’re waitin’ outside for scraps.” 

 

“They will be waiting for quite some time,” Sansa interjected smoothly, sitting down at the table. She looked over to Jon expectantly, refusing to eat until he did. It was a passive aggressive tactic, to be sure, but it often was one of the few methods which moved him to rest and eat. He scowled at her, knowing what she was up to, and sat down as well. 

 

“You’ll need to stay with Lady Stark for the rest of the day and tomorrow, Clegane. I don’t want another incident like last time.”

 

“You and me both,” he grumbled back. “Little shit got past me. I’ll keep your demon dog with us too, just in case.”

 

“Don’t call him that,” Sansa groused, giving Ghost a bite of her chicken and making Jon scowl. “I hate when you call him that.”

 

“Regardless,” Jon said, holding up a hand to prevent them from bickering. Sansa smirked, they absolutely would bicker about his nicknames, and it always made Jon irritable. He was wary of her relationship with the Hound. Confused by it, perhaps, but tolerant. Jon didn’t understand. He couldn’t fully understand what it was like for her in King’s Landing after her father was murdered. After Arya vanished. After Robb and her mother were murdered. When he was made to feel alone in the world, at least he was kept safe and protected. At least he’d felt loved by someone. Even though the Hound protected her in King’s Landing, he’d felt no love for her. Contempt and disgust were all he had been capable of back then. She smiled at the look of amusement on Sandor’s face.

 

Jon continued, “It was pure luck that Ghost was by your side that day. It won’t be this time. He stays with you.” 

 

Sansa rolled her eyes, batting her lashes, “Yes, your grace,” she answered drolly. He lowered his fork, lips pursed in annoyance and she snorted in response. They both hated their honorifics. Neither one really felt worthy of their titles anymore. They’d spoken once about it, and agreed that it was entirely due to Bran. Both still felt that he should be in their place by right. But Jon had been  _ named _ King by merit, passing the title would have been an insult to the lords and Daenerys never would have accepted it. Not quietly, anyway. Bran had refused to be Lord of Winterfell, claiming that Sansa was the oldest, and that her sex had not prevented her from restoring their ancestral home. It wouldn’t prevent her from running it either. Many believed Bran had been passed over because he was a cripple, few knew it was by choice. In part, it was also because Bran’s visions tired him excessively, and he had little say when they would come. Thankfully, Bran had accepted the role as Jon’s Hand at their insistence.

 

“It hardly matters,” she kept on, pushing at the food on her plate, “I’ll be in here for the rest of the day going over the books.” She shot a glance at Sandor, “I’ll need Arya’s assistance at some point.” He nodded into his food. She shrugged lightly, “She always was better at numbers than I was.” 

 

“Nonsense,” Jon corrected easily, he barreled through her protest. “What about the rest of the petitioners?” At that she pulled a face which she hoped conveyed all of the spite and contempt she felt for that comment. Jon raised his hands in defeat. “I shall send them away?”

 

“Thank you.”

 

“With the excuse…?”

 

‘That I have much better things to do?”

 

“Headache, it is, then.” 

 

“You should be grateful I entertain them at all.”

 

He quirked a brow, “Grateful?”

 

“My marriage is a benefit to  _ you, _ not me. In fact, you should count yourself lucky I didn’t marry Sandor and refuse to produce heirs.”

 

Jon’s jaw dropped, tongue in cheek, possibly not believing her but scandalized that she’d say it. 

 

Sandor snorted, “Talked about it, too. I’d rather cut off me own cock.”

 

Sansa lifted her brows in challenge but didn’t take her eyes off Jon, “Pleasant, Sandor.” She waited for Jon’s response as he sat back in his chair, eyes boring into her with enough heat to start up the fire again. 

 

“So can we stop this horseshit parade of dumb cunts, then?” Sandor spat out, making the serving girls giggle. He sneered at them, even though Jon scowled. Sandor didn’t mind his manners for anyone. 

 

“I have no idea what you mean, ser,” Sansa shot back primly. “This is a perfectly valid way for me to find a husband.” She was still looking at Jon though, who was shaking his head at her and trying very hard not to smile. 

 

“I am referring,  _ my lady _ ,” he spat out snappishly, “to the fact that we have to endure these idiots blathering on about you when it’s obvious that you two,” he pointed between them, “have a different fucking plan in mind.”

 

“Watch your tongue, Clegane,” Jon rumbled back warningly. The two men had never sparred, not to Sansa’s knowledge, but she had no desire to see what that outcome would look like. She reached her hand across the table,tugged at Jon’s hand to get his attention. The snarl on his face wavered slightly at the look on Sansa’s face and settled into a sneer. Sansa just pulled a face:  _ that’s just the way he talks _ . Jon’s brows shot straight up:  _ I’ll gut him _ . She sighed, exasperated, and looked over at a highly entertained Sandor. She rolled her eyes.

 

“We are going to make the announcement at Yuletide…” she admitted a little sheepishly. Sandor smirked, eyes glinting like a dog about to get the best cut of meat from the table. “Shut up.” He cut his glance over to Jon.

 

“Do I still have to play nice?”

 

“Yes.” 

 

“Oh, just let me push one of ‘em around. For old time’s sake.” 

 

“What old times?” Sansa asked, which went completely ignored.

 

“Fine. Karstark.”

 

“No, the Glover one.”

 

“Ryswell.”

 

Sandor narrowed his eyes, “Burley.”

 

“Done.” 

 

Sansa had her face in her hands by then. “You two are incorrigible.”

 

“He’s not going to  _ hurt _ him…”

 

“You--”

 

“I’m not stupid, Jon, you cannot just give him permission to maim my bannermen.”

 

“Firstly, no one said anything about maiming. And secondly, they are my bannermen too.” 

 

“They won’t be for long if they hear that you’re letting the Hound rough up their sons,” she japed.

 

“It’s just  _ one _ of them. He has a reputation to maintain after all.” 

 

“You have lost your mind.”  

 


End file.
